CHAPTER III.
"MY nephew!" Lady Lydiard exclaimed in a tone which expressedastonishment, but certainly not pleasure as well. "How many years is itsince you and I last met?" she asked, in her abruptly straightforwardway, as Mr. Felix Sweetsir approached her writing-table.
The visitor was not a person easily discouraged. He took Lady Lydiard'shand, and kissed it with easy grace. A shade of irony was in his manner,agreeably relieved by a playful flash of tenderness.
"Years, my dear aunt?" he said. "Look in your glass and you will seethat time has stood still since we met last. How wonderfully well youwear! When shall we celebrate the appearance of your first wrinkle? I amtoo old; I shall never live to see it."
He took an easychair, uninvited; placed himself close at his aunt'sside, and ran his eye over her ill-chosen dress with an air of satiricaladmiration. "How perfectly successful!" he said, with his well-bredinsolence. "What a chaste gayety of color!"
"What do you want?" asked her Ladyship, not in the least softened by thecompliment.
"I want to pay my respects to my dear aunt," Felix answered, perfectlyimpenetrable to his ungracious reception, and perfectly comfortable in aspacious arm-chair.
No pen-and-ink portrait need surely be drawn of Felix Sweetsir--he istoo well-known a picture in society. The little lithe man, with hisbright, restless eyes, and his long iron-gray hair falling in curls tohis shoulders, his airy step and his cordial manner; his uncertain age,his innumerable accomplishments, and his unbounded popularity--is he notfamiliar everywhere, and welcome everywhere? How gratefully he receives,how prodigally he repays, the cordial appreciation of an admiringworld! Every man he knows is "a charming fellow." Every woman he seesis "sweetly pretty." What picnics he gives on the banks of the Thames inthe summer season! What a well-earned little income he derives from thewhist-table! What an inestimable actor he is at private theatricalsof all sorts (weddings included)! Did you never read Sweetsir's novel,dashed off in the intervals of curative perspiration at a German bath?Then you don't know what brilliant fiction really is. He has neverwritten a second work; he does everything, and only does it once. Onesong--the despair of professional composers. One picture--just to showhow easily a gentleman can take up an art and drop it again. Areally multiform man, with all the graces and all the accomplishmentsscintillating perpetually at his fingers' ends. If these poor pageshave achieved nothing else, they have done a service to persons notin society by presenting them to Sweetsir. In his gracious companythe narrative brightens; and writer and reader (catching reflectedbrilliancy) understand each other at last, thanks to Sweetsir.
"Well," said Lady Lydiard, "now you are here, what have you got to sayfor yourself? You have been abroad, of course! Where?"
"Principally at Paris, my dear aunt. The only place that is fit to livein--for this excellent reason, that the French are the only people whoknow how to make the most of life. One has relations and friends inEngland and every now and then one returns to London--"
"When one has spent all one's money in Paris," her Ladyship interposed."That's what you were going to say, isn't it?"
Felix submitted to the interruption with his delightful good-humor.
"What a bright creature you are!" he exclaimed. "What would I not givefor your flow of spirits! Yes--one does spend money in Paris, as yousay. The clubs, the stock exchange, the race-course: you try your luckhere, there, and everywhere; and you lose and win, win and lose--and youhaven't a dull day to complain of." He paused, his smile died away, helooked inquiringly at Lady Lydiard. "What a wonderful existenceyours must be," he resumed. "The everlasting question with your needyfellow-creatures, 'Where am I to get money?' is a question that hasnever passed your lips. Enviable woman!" He paused once more--surprisedand puzzled this time. "What is the matter, my dear aunt? You seem to besuffering under some uneasiness."
"I am suffering under your conversation," her Ladyship answered sharply."Money is a sore subject with me just now," she went on, with her eyeson her nephew, watching the effect of what she said. "I have spent fivehundred pounds this morning with a scrape of my pen. And, only aweek since, I yielded to temptation and made an addition to mypicture-gallery." She looked, as she said those words, towards anarchway at the further end of the room, closed by curtains of purplevelvet. "I really tremble when I think of what that one picture cost mebefore I could call it mine. A landscape by Hobbema; and the NationalGallery bidding against me. Never mind!" she concluded, consolingherself, as usual, with considerations that were beneath her. "Hobbemawill sell at my death for a bigger price than I gave for him--that's onecomfort!" She looked again at Felix; a smile of mischievoussatisfaction began to show itself in her face. "Anything wrong with yourwatch-chain?" she asked.
Felix, absently playing with his watch-chain, started as if his aunthad suddenly awakened him. While Lady Lydiard had been speaking, hisvivacity had subsided little by little, and had left him looking soserious and so old that his most intimate friend would hardly have knownhim again. Roused by the sudden question that had been put to him, heseemed to be casting about in his mind in search of the first excuse forhis silence that might turn up.
"I was wondering," he began, "why I miss something when I look roundthis beautiful room; something familiar, you know, that I fully expectedto find here."
"Tommie?" suggested Lady Lydiard, still watching her nephew asmaliciously as ever.
"That's it!" cried Felix, seizing his excuse, and rallying his spirits."Why don't I hear Tommie snarling behind me; why don't I feel Tommie'steeth in my trousers?"
The smile vanished from Lady Lydiard's face; the tone taken by hernephew in speaking of her dog was disrespectful in the extreme.She showed him plainly that she disapproved of it. Felix went on,nevertheless, impenetrable to reproof of the silent sort. "Dear littleTommie! So delightfully fat; and such an infernal temper! I don't knowwhether I hate him or love him. Where is he?"
"Ill in bed," answered her ladyship, with a gravity which startled evenFelix himself. "I wish to speak to you about Tommie. You know everybody.Do you know of a good dog-doctor? The person I have employed so fardoesn't at all satisfy me."
"Professional person?" inquired Felix.
"Yes."
"All humbugs, my dear aunt. The worse the dog gets the bigger the billgrows, don't you see? I have got the man for you--a gentleman. Knowsmore about horses and dogs than all the veterinary surgeons puttogether. We met in the boat yesterday crossing the Channel. Youknow him by name, of course? Lord Rotherfield's youngest son, AlfredHardyman."
"The owner of the stud farm? The man who has bred the famousracehorses?" cried Lady Lydiard. "My dear Felix, how can I presume totrouble such a great personage about my dog?"
Felix burst into his genial laugh. "Never was modesty more woefullyout of place," he rejoined. "Hardyman is dying to be presented to yourLadyship. He has heard, like everybody, of the magnificent decorationsof this house, and he is longing to see them. His chambers are close by,in Pall Mall. If he is at home we will have him here in five minutes.Perhaps I had better see the dog first?"
Lady Lydiard shook her head. "Isabel says he had better not bedisturbed," she answered. "Isabel understands him better than anybody."
Felix lifted his lively eyebrows with a mixed expression of curiosityand surprise. "Who is Isabel?"
Lady Lydiard was vexed with herself for carelessly mentioning Isabel'sname in her nephew's presence. Felix was not the sort of person whom shewas desirous of admitting to her confidence in domestic matters. "Isabelis an addition to my household since you were here last," she answeredshortly.
"Young and pretty?" inquired Felix. "Ah! you look serious, and youdon't answer me. Young and pretty, evidently. Which may I see first, theaddition to your household or the addition to your picture-gallery? Youlook at the picture-gallery--I am answered again." He rose to approachthe archway, and stopped at his first step forward. "A sweet girl is adreadful responsibility, aunt," he resumed, with an ironical assumptionof gravity. "Do you k
now, I shouldn't be surprised if Isabel, in thelong run, cost you more than Hobbema. Who is this at the door?"
The person at the door was Robert Moody, returned from the bank. Mr.Felix Sweetsir, being near-sighted, was obliged to fit his eye-glass inposition before he could recognize the prime minister of Lady Lydiard'shousehold.
"Ha! our worthy Moody. How well he wears! Not a gray hair on hishead--and look at mine! What dye do you use, Moody? If he had my opendisposition he would tell. As it is, he looks unutterable things, andholds his tongue. Ah! if I could only have held _my_ tongue--when Iwas in the diplomatic service, you know--what a position I might haveoccupied by this time! Don't let me interrupt you, Moody, if you haveanything to say to Lady Lydiard."
Having acknowledged Mr. Sweetsir's lively greeting by a formal bow,and a grave look of wonder which respectfully repelled that vivaciousgentleman's flow of humor, Moody turned towards his mistress.
"Have you got the bank-note?" asked her Ladyship.
Moody laid the bank-note on the table.
"Am I in the way?" inquired Felix.
"No," said his aunt. "I have a letter to write; it won't occupy mefor more than a few minutes. You can stay here, or go and look at theHobbema, which you please."
Felix made a second sauntering attempt to reach the picture-gallery.Arrived within a few steps of the entrance, he stopped again, attractedby an open cabinet of Italian workmanship, filled with rare old china.Being nothing if not a cultivated amateur, Mr. Sweetsir paused to payhis passing tribute of admiration before the contents of the cabinet."Charming! charming!" he said to himself, with his head twistedappreciatively a little on one side. Lady Lydiard and Moody left him inundisturbed enjoyment of the china, and went on with the business of thebank-note.
"Ought we to take the number of the note, in case of accident?" askedher Ladyship.
Moody produced a slip of paper from his waistcoat pocket. "I took thenumber, my Lady, at the bank."
"Very well. You keep it. While I am writing my letter, suppose youdirect the envelope. What is the clergyman's name?"
Moody mentioned the name and directed the envelope. Felix, happening tolook round at Lady Lydiard and the steward while they were both engagedin writing, returned suddenly to the table as if he had been struck by anew idea.
"Is there a third pen?" he asked. "Why shouldn't I write a line at onceto Hardyman, aunt? The sooner you have his opinion about Tommie thebetter--don't you think so?"
Lady Lydiard pointed to the pen tray, with a smile. To showconsideration for her dog was to seize irresistibly on the high-roadto her favor. Felix set to work on his letter, in a large scramblinghandwriting, with plenty of ink and a noisy pen. "I declare we are likeclerks in an office," he remarked, in his cheery way. "All with ournoses to the paper, writing as if we lived by it! Here, Moody, let oneof the servants take this at once to Mr. Hardyman's."
The messenger was despatched. Robert returned, and waited near hismistress, with the directed envelope in his hand. Felix sauntered backslowly towards the picture-gallery, for the third time. In a moment moreLady Lydiard finished her letter, and folded up the bank-note in it. Shehad just taken the directed envelope from Moody, and had just placed theletter inside it, when a scream from the inner room, in which Isabel wasnursing the sick dog, startled everybody. "My Lady! my Lady!" cried thegirl, distractedly, "Tommie is in a fit? Tommie is dying!"
Lady Lydiard dropped the unclosed envelope on the table, and ran--yes,short as she was and fat as she was, ran--into the inner room. The twomen, left together, looked at each other.
"Moody," said Felix, in his lazily-cynical way, "do you think if you orI were in a fit that her Ladyship would run? Bah! these are the thingsthat shake one's faith in human nature. I feel infernally seedy. Thatcursed Channel passage--I tremble in my inmost stomach when I think ofit. Get me something, Moody."
"What shall I send you, sir?" Moody asked coldly.
"Some dry curacoa and a biscuit. And let it be brought to me in thepicture-gallery. Damn the dog! I'll go and look at Hobbema."
This time he succeeded in reaching the archway, and disappeared behindthe curtains of the picture-gallery.